Jurassic Park: Execution
by Future Ex-Mrs Malcolm
Summary: They are too dangerous. They have killed before, and the government wants them destroyed before they kill again.
1. Prologue: Independence Day

Jurassic Park: Execution

Summary: They are too dangerous. They have killed before, and the government wants them destroyed before they kill again.

Disclaimer: I do not own Jurassic Park or its characters. I also don't own the "Oscar Meyer Weiner Song," which is briefly mentioned in the prologue. Pretty much the only thing I own about this is the brain that came up with this story, the idea for the concept, the original characters, and the body that typed it all. Please don't sue; you won't get much.

Author's notes: This is my newest story. Unlike JP: Strain X, it is incomplete, but I intend to keep working on it. Sorry for my lack of updates to Strain X, by the way. Each time I post a new chapter of it on here, I become more dissatisfied with how it ultimately turned out. I'm planning a major re-write of that story sometime soon, either before or after I finish this one (and some other unfinished ones that I haven't posted here, which both follow Strain X). Anyway, I think this story has much better writing than my other one, so I'm more comfortable posting it.

And, now, our feature presentation:  
Jurassic Park: Execution

Prologue: Independence Day

_First of all, let me assert my firm belief that he only thing we have to fear is fear itself - nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance_.–Franklin Roosevelt

The rays of the late afternoon sun drifted onto the Riker's fenced-in backyard, the setting of the 2005 edition of their annual Fourth of July party. A slight breeze softened the harshness of the muggy, hot, Nashville air, cooling the guests as it danced around their bodies. On the redwood-stained deck, Jeff Riker prepared hot dogs, hamburgers, and other tasty treats at his red propane grill. Nearby, as he prepared the meal, his teenaged daughter, Jolene, served cold drinks at a table, the icy beverages shielded from the sunlight by a large umbrella the color of sap green oil paint.

Connected to the deck and bordering the right side of the mottled gray chain-link fence was a swimming pool–a large, oval-shaped, aboveground model with detailing on the edges in multiple blue shades. Inside the crystal-clear water, several guests, both young and old, jumped, whooped, and hollered with joy as they played a game of "Keep Away," using a multicolored beach ball as the coveted item to be kept away from the joyous elderly man in the middle.

Inside the house, Dawn Riker stood before a mirror in the bedroom, harshly criticizing her appearance. The twenty-three-year-old dancer meticulously examined the image in the glass, searching for flaws. Not that there were very many. The tall blonde's face had no wrinkles, and her light caramel-toned skin had no prominent scars visible outside of her blue and white checked bikini. Her abdomen protruded slightly from its four months pregnant state. As she noticed the reflection of her mid-section, she frowned disapprovingly and rubbed her right hand against the exposed flesh of her belly. "God, why did I buy a bikini?" she muttered aloud, then rested her hands on her hips and went back to scrutinizing her body.

Once satisfied that her looks were at least somewhat suitable, she turned away from the mirror and exited the bedroom. As she walked down the dark hallway toward the back porch, her flimsy cerulean and white flip-flops clicked against the tile floor below.

The main hallway of the house had earned the nickname "The Trophy Case" long before Dawn had become the fourth Mrs. Jeffery Riker. Along each wall, a glassed-in set of cherry wood shelves extended from the ceiling to the floor, both containing the various plaques, trophies, statuettes, and other souvenirs Jeff had accumulated during his lucrative career. With their shiny gleams, neither of the cases appeared to have a single speck of dust on their surfaces.

Jeff Riker was a highly-successful songwriter and country musician, and all of his awards had been well-earned. His deep, husky voice had garnered countless fans, as had being deemed early in his career to be "the man who could make the 'Oscar Meyer Weiner Song' sound sexy" by a legendary performer. That trait, as well as the distinctly southern twang in his speaking voice, his towering height, his well-toned body, and his ability to wear cowboy clothes without it appearing to be part of an act, had also earned him several girlfriends and wives to go along with the loyal afficionados. However, even with the willing women throwing themselves at him on almost a daily basis, he still always remained faithful to any lady he was enamored with at the moment.

He and Dawn had met two years after his third wife's brutal assassination outside of one of his concerts. He had still been grieving over Joanna's shooting, but one of the members of his band, a man called Redneck Red, had insisted that the widower meet with a long-time friend of his sister's, a ballerina from New York City. For Jeff and Dawn, a relationship that appeared to have spurred from "love at first sight" erupted, and the two became man and wife on the one-year anniversary of their first meeting. Since he was forty-seven at the time, and she had been barely twenty-one, their relationship had its fair share of detractors. She was frequently referred to by jealous fans as a trophy wife or, most often, as a "living blow-up doll," but the two ignored the bitter criticisms and lived in relative bliss. They purchased a two-story house and several acres of property in the small community of Williamsport, an area in Maury County, Tennessee, south of Nashville's Davidson County, where they had enjoyed relative anonymity and a quiet existence since the day they returned from their honeymoon.

As she approached her destination, the sun's rays shone through the sliding glass door, hurting her eyes and temporarily blinding her. She squinted as she reached the door, and she pushed on its handle to open it. Once it was opened, she stepped onto the deck and closed the door behind her. She raised her right hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the bright sunlight as she scanned the area for her husband. She located him, and she approached him, somewhat hesitantly.

He turned to her and kissed her lovingly on her left cheek. "Hey, beautiful," he said, his dark voice possessing a jovial tone. "Glad to see you could make it."

"I couldn't decide what to wear," she grumbled. "I'm so fat."

He chuckled. "You're pregnant."

"Don't remind me."

He turned back to the grill and, using a spatula, flipped a burger onto its pinker side, exposing the darker, browner underside, and he repeated this until all ten of the patties had been repositioned. Then, his focus returned to her. "Honey, you're beautiful. I know plenty of men who would abandon their wives in a heartbeat for a woman like you, whether you were pregnant or not."

This answer did not satisfy her. However, before she could respond, one of the guests in the pool, a female, let out a blood-curdling scream. Soon, several more fearful shouts erupted, and the two hosts turned looked toward the pool.

Before they could react, a huge, brown, bird-shaped animal swooped from the sky and pulled a little girl with waterlogged red hair and a pink frilled bathing suit from the pool. She kicked, squealed, and cried as the frightening creature carried her by the shoulders, the sharp claws on its feet cutting into her skin like knives. However, the beast lost its grip and accidentally dropped the child into a wild blackberry bush outside the fence.

"Tiffany!" the girl's mother shouted as she struggled to leave the pool to rescue her daughter. But she was too late and could only watch as the pteranodon located her daughter and descended for its prey once again. This time, it was successful, and it carried the girl out of sight.

Unfortunately, the horror was not over. Once the other was gone, two more pteranodons appeared overhead. The reptilian pair circled the yard for a moment, then one headed toward the pool while the other headed toward the porch.

The airborne reptile went for Jolene, but she thought quickly and began throwing unopened drink cans toward the animal. The pteranodon squealed and cawed in anger as the cans hit against its torso and massive wings. Realizing that its target was not going to stop fighting, the pteranodon set its sights on her stepmother. Protectively, Jeff stepped between Dawn and the ptera as it moved toward his expectant wife. Meanwhile, Jolene closed and disconnected the umbrella from the table and pulled it from the hole that held it. Gripping the shiny, chrome pole of the umbrella's end like a batting baseball player, the teenage girl swung the object with as much force as she could muster and aimed for the middle of the pteranodon's back. The folded fabric of the canopy and the metal pole inside collided against the animal with a loud thump, and the ptera released a terrifying, screechy wail of pain. Then, it turned away from Mr. and Mrs. Riker, its attention on defending itself from Jolene's attack.

All of Jolene's fear had been replaced by adrenaline and anger. She glared menacingly as the pteranodon folded its wings and waddled on the lower tips of them, advancing toward her. Cautiously, she stepped backwards, brandishing the umbrella in front of her like a sword. Suddenly, the creature jumped toward her, and, immediately, she pressed a button on the pole with her right hand. The green umbrella swiftly unfolded, and the ptera jumped back in fear and surprise.  
However, while concentrating on defending herself and her family from one pteranodon, she barely notice another approaching her from behind until it rammed its beak deep into the right side of her back. She screamed in pain and fell, losing consciousness when her head hit the wood on the deck . . .


	2. Chapter One: Bystander No More

Jurassic Park: Execution

Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own 'em.

Author's note: Those of you who have read one of the earlier versions of the script for _The Lost World: Jurassic Park_ probably recognize the name "Juttson" as being the last name of a paleontologist who was going to be in the movie. As you know, the character ultimately was not in the film. However, the Dr. Thomas Juttson character in this story is kind of/sort of that same character, although he is probably much different than the writers of that version of TLW: JP's script intended. I never saw a first name for the character in the version I've read, so I gave him the name Thomas. Anyways, back to the story.

Chapter One: Bystander No More

At six o'clock in the morning the day after July 4, 2005, Sue's All-Night Diner, a small restaurant located just outside San Diego, was packed with customers. The patrons' conversations blended with the noise of the air conditioners positioned near the top of the right and left walls and the jukebox that played at the back of the diner.

Bright fluorescent lights illuminated the establishment and reflected against the black and white checkerboard-patterned tile floor of the 1950's-themed diner. Waitresses dressed in white shirts and pink poodle skirts darted from table to table, serving coffee to and taking orders from people seated in red chairs. At the back, a large counter ran between the side walls, where some customers dined atop metal stools with lipstick crimson cushions and others paid for their meals at a custom-made cash register that appeared old-fashioned.

It was at one of these stools where a tall, thin man with short curls the color of the darkest chocolate, sat, reading a newspaper while drinking coffee from a nondescript white mug. His brown eyes were narrowed behind his small, wire-framed glasses as he read, and his full lips were pursed outward in disapproval. His all-black attire seemed out of place in the hot summer weather, particularly his leather jacket that he wore.

Occasionally, some of the others in the restaurant would cast glances of recognition towards this man, although none of them could accurately identify him. However, they were certain that they had seen this man in black somewhere.

"It appears InGen's getting into the grave-digging business again," the man commented to himself, then took a drink of his coffee. He sighed.

For about eight years, Ian Malcolm had attempted to avoid all topics related to International Genetics Inc. and their creations, with the exception of his book, and, during those years, he had been rather successful. The mathematician had become an expert at changing the subject in the middle of a conversation whenever the topic shifted to InGen or dinosaurs, and he was highly talented at hitting the "delete" key inside the inbox of his e-mail accounts. His secretary handled his mail, and his answering machine and voicemail accepted the calls to his unlisted telephone numbers. So he had, for the most part, successfully avoided the subject of InGen. Until now.

On a television nearby, a news reporter on the local NBC affiliate, a young, Indian woman named Rani Patel, was broadcasting in front of a long, white building in Williamsport, Tennessee, giving the details of the previous day's pteranodon attack. She was standing in front of two gas pumps at the front of the store/post office combination building as she reported, while several other reporters were gathered in various spots around her.

"Yesterday," she began, "three flying dinosaurs attacked the guests of a Fourth of July party at the home of celebrated country musician and song writer, Jeff Riker. Four adults and six children were killed in the horrific attack, and several more were seriously injured, including the singer's teenage daughter, Jolene Riker, who is reportedly in critical but stable condition at Vanderbilt Children's Hospital in Nashville. Several of the injured were treated and released from Maury Regional Hospital in nearby Columbia, while other, more seriously hurt, guests were transported to hospitals in Nashville. When more information becomes available, you'll be the first to know. Back to you, Julie."

The onscreen scene switched to another reporter, and Malcolm's focus returned to his newspaper and coffee. For the past few years, he had been hearing about attacks throughout Costa Rica, Central America, Mexico, and the southern United States, none of which had been completely confirmed. Most of them sounded like velociraptor attacks, which scared him the most, but few of them had achieved media attention, none major. On the other hand, two ill-fated expeditions had been in the news, one back in 2001, when paleontologist and survivor of Jurassic Park Alan Grant was part of a rescue mission, the other one month ago when another paleontologist's research team disappeared. Both groups had been on an infamous Costa Rican island, Isla Sorna, and, while Grant had returned alive and nearly well from "Site B," Dr. Richard Levine still had not been heard from and was presumed dead.

He had a feeling that, soon, he was no longer going to be an innocent bystander to the situation, especially since there had been so many other incidents recently. Rumors had been circulating for months that the United States and Costa Rican governments were preparing to destroy Isla Sorna, although neither would confirm or deny the gossip. Malcolm hoped they would. In fact, for years, he had, whenever he allowed someone to ask, admitted that he strongly advocated the destruction of all prehistoric life on the island. He knew the dinosaurs were dangerous and needed to be destroyed. However, he hoped his involvement would not be considered necessary.

He folded his newspaper and placed it on the counter, then consumed the last of his coffee. He stood and grabbed his paper, and he went to the cash register to pay for his beverage. He handed over his credit card, and, as he waited for the waitress at the register to process his payment, his cellular telephone rang.

To quell the ringing, he pulled the phone from one of the front pockets of his pants and irritably answered, "Malcolm."

"Bonjour, mon ami. Comment allez-vous aujourd'hui?" the caller, said, in an obviously fake French accent.

"Tom, you're not French, so you might as well give, uh, it up."

On the other end of the conversation, Dr. Thomas Juttson chuckled. Behind a brown, wicker clothes-hamper in the bathroom of his apartment, the paleontologist crouched, hiding from the federal agents in his living room. The room was dark except for the sunlight that came through the tiny window. He quickly ran his fingers through his ear-length, light reddish-brown curls, then pushed his glasses, which were similar to Malcolm's, up higher on his nose. "They're after me," he cautiously whispered.

Malcolm sighed as the waitress returned his credit card. He placed it in his pocket, then signed the receipt for his order as he said, "Tom, how many times do I have to tell you, don't mix your drinks?" He peeled the pale yellow bottom sheet away from the receipt, the carbon copy of his wild signature extending across a line at the bottom and shoved it into the same pocket that held his wallet and, previously, his mobile phone. Calmly, but not sincerely, he continued, "Seriously. The aliens are not going to abduct you again. You're drunk; that's all."

"Ian, I'm not drunk!" Juttson insisted harshly. "And it's not the aliens this time. Two big, and I mean _big_, FBI agents are in my apartment, and they want me to come with them _and_ tell them where you are. By the way, you _have_ been asking all your one-night-stands their ages _before_ you one-night-stand them, haven't you?"

Malcolm growled, holding the phone to his right ear as he exited the diner. "Tom, did you ask them why they're there?"

"Of course, what do you think I am, stupid? Wait, don't answer that. They gave me the whole G-man schtick, you know, the whole 'That's classified information' B. S. line. Why the hell would they want both of us?"

The pair was silent for a moment, then two possibilities came into Malcolm's mind. "Either it has something to do with Richard or that attack yesterday."

"Hmm, possibly both."

"Maybe," Malcolm affirmed.

"Shit. Uh, Ian, I guess I'll be seeing you soon, then. I can't hide in my bathroom forever, after all, especially since they already know where I am." Juttson laughed somewhat fearfully. "They'll kick the door down eventually, and my window's too small to crawl through. Later."

Malcolm heard a click on the other end, followed by a dial tone. _This is not good_, he thought sourly. _Not good at all. Only one day, and the government's already involved._ He shook his head glumly and slipped his telephone back into his pocket, then pulled his car keys from the right-hand pocket. The small pieces of metal jangled against each other on their chain as he approached his sleek, red, vintage convertible, a Pontiac GTO that had survived years of abuse since his parents purchased it for him when he graduated from college. He opened the driver's side door and slid inside, then closed the door, fastened his seatbelt, and pushed the correct key into the ignition. He turned it, and the engine purred to life. He pushed the gear shift into reverse position, maneuvered out of the parking space, shifted gears again, and pulled away, reluctantly heading toward his apartment, worried about what would be awaiting him when he arrived.


	3. Chapter 2: Badlands Utopia Disturbed

Jurassic Park: Execution

Disclaimer: I don't own it. I wish I did, but I don't.

Chapter Two: Badlands Utopia Disturbed

"Contrary to popular belief," the man in front of the news camera began, his tone expressing how truly perturbed he was, "pteranodons are not dinosaurs. They are prehistoric flying reptiles. And, while yesterday's attack in Tennessee was nothing short of horrific, it is just what you should expect from these creatures. These are _not_ authentic pteranodons, but, rather, as I have said many times in the past, genetically-engineered theme park monsters. Genuine pteranodons had no teeth; InGen's did. See my point, or do I need to elaborate further?" He was becoming sarcastic as he continued, with each word sounding as if he was closer and closer to losing complete control of his temper. "Do I need to tell you about how I was chased and nearly eaten by what was presumed to have been mostly a fish eater? Should I explain how a dinosaur that should have never been able to defeat a _Tyrannosaurus rex_ did so right in front of me? Or are the vicious pteranodons with teeth enough proof for you?"

Dr. Alan Grant was quickly growing weary of the reporters gathered at his dig site. They had arrived around four o'clock that morning, before even he had awakened, and they were still there over two hours later, still asking the same questions, repeating their inquiries like broken records by different performers, each stuck on the same line in the same unbearably irritating song. And they were multiplying! More news vans were driving toward the site and his trailer as he tried to answer the questions he was being bombarded with. As a result, he was developing a migraine headache that he was certain would not fade away easily.

The disturbance was a shame, too. The morning air over the dig was cool, and a soft breeze was blowing, sending puffs of the dusty ground into the air. It was peaceful, and, on mornings like that, Grant enjoyed sitting outside of his trailer with a cup of coffee and thinking. Not today, unfortunately. The journalists surrounded him like a group of hungry and pesky ants, bent on driving him insane.

Dr. Grant was a moderately tall, slightly thin, middle-aged paleontologist and was the supervisor of a Montana dinosaur dig, where various media employees were gathered to receive his response to the previous day's pteranodon attack. With his faded, worn blue jeans, faded flannel shirt, and light brown hat, he gave the impression of the American everyman, not an eminent scientist that had spent most of his young life in New Zealand, although his voice had more than a hint of an accent and his overall demeanor expressed his intelligence. His skin was tanned from his outdoor work, and he had light brown hair and eyes that shifted between blue or green, depending on the light. Usually, he was calm, but, today, his temper was flaring from his annoyance. If he knew that he would not be arrested, he probably would have punched at least one, if not all, of the intruders with the cameras.

To him, the worst part of the interview was that the reporters simply did not listen. Another reporter, this one a young redheaded woman, instead of the blonde he had just corrected moments before, asked, "Do you think the flying dinosaurs will attack again somewhere else?"

He gritted his teeth, trying to bite back an angry retort, but he failed and snapped in reply, "For the last time, pteranodons are not dinosaurs! They are _flying reptiles_! Now, I would greatly appreciate it if you would actually _listen_ when I am correcting you. Is that clear?"

None of them replied to his statement. Instead, they all began asking him countless questions at once, none of which could be clearly understood. Deciding he did not want to deal with them anymore, he sighed and pushed his way out of the crowd. When he walked away, none of the reporters seemed to notice.

Once free of the journalists, he entered his trailer and saw Dr. Billy Brennan, one of the other paleontologists and a friend of his, hanging up the telephone, a small, gray, cordless model that Grant had almost no clue how to operate.

Billy had started working for Grant as a student, then surprised his supervisor by continuing to pursue paleontology after he nearly lost his life on Isla Sorna. After he recovered, Dr. Brennan remained with Grant's team and had become the resident "Funding Getter Guy," a term coined by some of the students and volunteers due to his innate ability to persuade people to help earn donations for the research. His youth and physical attractiveness appealed to female audiences, and his amazing talent for knowing exactly what to say, how to say it, and when to day it made people more convinced that their money was going to have a profound influence on the future of science.

Physically, William Brennan, Jr., was about the same height as Grant, possibly a few inches taller. He had short, curly, brown hair, dark eyes, and had a tan similar in color to Grant's. He was attractive, especially to the women at the dig, and he was well-liked by everybody. His knack for dealing with people made him a valuable asset to the team, particularly since, over the years, Grant had gradually been becoming less willing to deal with people, preferring instead to stick to digging up fossils.

"You okay?" Brennan asked.

Grant sighed wearily. "I swear, if murder was legal, there would be a few less living reporters at the moment."

Brennan nodded understandingly, then hesitantly asked, "So, I suppose now wouldn't be a good time to tell you that I just got off the phone with Ian Malcolm, would it?"

Grant raised an eyebrow. "Ian Malcolm? What on earth did he want?"

"Honestly, I'm actually not sure," the younger man replied. "He seemed to be in a hurry and worried about something, and it was kind of hard to pay attention, since he was mostly rambling. From what I could tell, though, it had something to do with the FBI, Richard Levine, and Thomas Juttson."

Grant sighed. Thinking of Malcolm was bad enough, but when Levine and Juttson were added to the mix, things were a lot worse.

No matter how hard he tried, Grant could never take Levine seriously in their chosen field. While he knew that Levine was a highly talented paleontologist, he considered the younger man to be what he called a "teacup dinosaur hunter"—someone who was more interested in working in a classroom or a lab than out in the field searching through dust and rock for fossils like a treasure hunter seeking gold and other riches. He had only met Levine twice, and, each time, Levine's "teacup dinosaur hunter" status was painfully apparent. His perfectly pressed attire, smug mannerisms, and outlandish spending habits were a sharp contrast to Grant's worn, dirt-covered, casual wardrobe, approachable personality, and penny-pinching.

Thomas Juttson was a whole other matter. Even though Grant had been partially responsible for Juttson's inspiration to become a paleontologist, the two had been long-time rivals. They first encountered each other during Grant's first year in charge of a dig. At that time, Juttson had been only a volunteer, a wealthy medical student with a promising surgical career ahead of him, a long-time interest in dinosaurs, and a plethora of unorthodox theories that frequently conflicted with Grant's. In fact, Grant could not remember a time where he had a conversation with Juttson that did not turn into a heated debate over velociraptor intelligence or whether the _Tyrannosaurus rex_ was a predator or a scavenger or some other equally controversial dispute. Sometimes, Juttson would argue with him over well-known facts, apparently just for the sake of arguing. He had grown sick of the irritating young man and eventually kicked Juttson off the team, and soon afterward he learned that the man had quit medical school for a career in paleontology.

Since he kicked him off the team, Grant knew very little about what Juttson had done through the years, and he did not care to know, either. He did, however, know that Juttson had published a book that contradicted almost every theory presented in Grant's own _The Dinosaurs of Montana_ and that he had also written the foreword for the first of Ian Malcolm's two books about the Jurassic Park and Site B disasters, using it as the perfect opportunity to insult Grant's work.

"FBI, Richard Levine, and Thomas Juttson," Grant repeated, shaking his head.

"Yeah," Brennan replied.

"Three things that shouldn't be together in the same sentence. What could the FBI possibly want with those two, or Ian Malcolm, for that matter?"

Brennan shrugged. "Probably nothing that involves you. Maybe those three went on some nationwide crime spree or something, and maybe they incriminated you along with them."

Grant chuckled. "That _is_ a possibility. To be honest, I wouldn't be surprised if Juttson did just that."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, that's simple. One, he despises me, and two, he craves attention. Juttson would probably sell his own mother to the devil if it meant getting his name mentioned somewhere."

Brennan laughed. "I've heard that a lot."

"I learned it the hard way. He was a volunteer here years ago, and he never—"

Grant was interrupted by the metallic rattle of somebody knocking on the trailer door. Assuming the person outside was a reporter, he harshly yelled, "Go away!"

"I'm afraid I can't do that, sir," a male voice replied, his deep voice carrying a strictly-business tone. "FBI."

Grant turned and looked at Brennan. "What were you saying about 'nothing that involves me,' Billy?"

Brennan shrugged. "Wishful thinking, I guess."

Grant nodded and walked toward the door. As he twisted the matte gray knob, the gold paint on it long worn away, he grumbled, "This is clearly not my day."


	4. Chapter 3: Communicate

Jurassic Park: Execution

Disclaimer: Sadly, they still don't belong to me.

Author's Notes: Sorry for the delay in updating. I've been bus . . . real life interv . . . writer's block got . . . Aw, who am I kidding? I've been procrastinating. It's a problem of mine that I really should work on, huh? But, if you really want toblame the delay on someone, blame it on Steven Spielberg. He's the one that directed the movie that provided the distraction when I was _thisclose _to finishing this chapter (_War of the Worlds_, in case you're wondering; great movie, by the way. My mind was occupied by it after both times I saw it).

One last thing: Thank you, everyone, for the reviews. I appreciate 'em. Hopefully new ones will help me get my tail in gear.

Chapter Three: Communicate

Inside the office of Special Agent Nolan Sullivan, a cloud of gray tobacco smoke hung in the air over the polished mahogany desk, giving the room a forbidding aura. On top of the antique piece of furniture were six stacks of papers, each arranged neatly and perfectly into three piles on the left and right sides, the ones on the right pressing against the edge of a modern-looking, fully-featured cordless telephone. Between the documents was an orange and white laptop computer, unfolded and looking oddly out of place amongst the other, much older-appearing items in the room. The technological item seemed even more unusual when one considered its user, a gruff-looking, middle-aged, physically disabled federal agent.

Behind the desk, the agent sat, puffing on a cigar while reading an e-mail. His steely gray eyes, behind a large pair of blue bifocal glasses, were narrowed pensively, carefully reading each of the lines of onscreen text. His wrinkled, slightly tanned face was scrunched thoughtfully as he mentally digested the information, occasionally shaking his head to move the locks of his salt and pepper, mostly salt, hair out of his line of vision.

Smoking in the J. Edgar Hoover Building, the headquarters for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, had been banned for several years, but nobody dared mention that to Sullivan. He was one of the few remaining agents that still did whatever he wanted whether others approved of the action or not, and, if some unfortunate person told him not to do something, such as smoke his cigars, the wheelchair-bound veteran agent would, as one of his colleagues so eloquently put it, "rip 'em a new one." Nobody dared contradict any of his actions or orders. While he may have lost his career as a field agent to a bullet in his spine, he had not lost the menacing and managerial edge that made others fear and respect him. The bureau kept him on the staff to organize the particularly dangerous missions.

A heavy knocking against the office door broke his concentration, and he closed the computer. "Enter!" he barked loudly.

The doorknob squeaked quietly as Special Agent Phillip Carpenter opened the door and entered the office. "Good morning, sir," the deep-voiced African American stated, closing the door.

"Have a seat, Carpenter," Sullivan ordered, and Carpenter obediently sat in the gray metal folding chair in front of the desk. Then, to be polite, the elder man asked, "How are you this morning?"

"I'm fine, sir," Carpenter replied. "And you?"

"I'm doing quite well, thank you." He paused for a moment, then asked, "Did your agents get them all?"

Carpenter nodded. "Yes, sir, with the exception of Dr. Ellie Sattler-Degler, who is expecting her third child, and Dr. Sarah Harding, who's recovering from a dislocated shoulder acquired during a hiking accident last week."

"I see." Sullivan pondered this for a moment, considering the implications. After deducing that there were none that were significant, he inquired, "When will the others be arriving?"

"Last time I checked, the plane with Dr. Malcolm and Dr. Juttson on board had almost reached Montana, so I'd estimate that the scientists will be here late this afternoon, early this evening, sometime in that range, possibly later."

The older man nodded. "Good. And, is your team prepared for what they have to do?"

"Yes, sir," Carpenter replied confidently.

"Good." He paused for a moment. "You do realize, this is not going to be like any other expedition you or any of them have been involved in, don't you? This is not going to be a simple game of dodge-ball with bullets like you usually deal with While the human dangers are highly risky, the animals are going to be worse. You and your team are going to be dealing with living, breathing monsters from a long-gone era, expert predators that died out millions of years ago, only to be resurrected by modern technology. And these animals will not hesitate to kill you or one of your team members. They do not care about the security of the United States of America or the sanctity of human life. Their minds are only on one thing: survival. And, if that means that one or more of the members of the team ends up in one of their bellies, their only concern will be digesting that tasty, _homo sapien_ meal. Is that clear?"

Carpenter nodded. "Yes. I know what I'm dealing with. My son and I both love dinosaurs, so I'm very well informed about them."

"But is your team?" Carpenter did not answer, so Sullivan said, "Special Agent Carpenter, your team is going to be dealing with dangerous animals from another time; they need to know what they are up against." He sighed, then turned his attention back to his laptop. "Make sure your group is thoroughly informed before leaving tomorrow. And make sure that they are willing to listen to the scientists–those four gentlemen know more about the dinosaurs than any of our agents will."

"Yes, sir." Carpenter stood and walked to the door.

Before the younger agent left, Sullivan looked up from his computer and said, "One more thing." Carpenter stopped, and Sullivan continued. "Have you spoken with either of our insiders recently, and have either of them mentioned a problem on the island?"

"Uh, no," Carpenter replied, wincing slightly as he prepared for the berating that was sure to follow.

Sullivan raised an eyebrow. "And, is there any specific reason for this?"

"No, not really, sir. Uh, I'll try to talk to them on their sat phones as soon as possible."

Using his left hand, Sullivan gestured to the telephone and gruffly ordered, "Do it now."

Carpenter nodded obediently, then stepped forward. He lifted the phone, then dialed a number. He pressed the device to his ear and was greeted with the inhuman female monotone of a computerized error message. He shook his head, then pressed another series of buttons, only to once again receive same mechanical statement.

"No answer?"

"No, sir, their phones seem to be out of service. They might've turned them off to save the batteries."

"I thought you told Levine and Andrews not to turn off their phones under any circumstances. Or, at least, that's what I told you to tell them."

"I did, sir."

Sullivan sighed, then rolled his wheelchair closer to the desk. "Get the other agents together, and have them prepared to go to Isla Sorna immediately after I brief the scientists."

"But, sir," Carpenter began, only to be stopped mid-sentence by his superior.

"Just do it."

The younger man replied, "Yes, sir," then quickly left the office.


End file.
